


Clarity of Purpose:  Appendixes

by Mithen



Series: Clarity of Vision [4]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Appendixes, Canon-Typical Character Death, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-01 18:23:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5216033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/pseuds/Mithen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Excerpts from the Red Book of Westmarch, in which can be found the tales of various characters from Clarity of Purpose:  their histories, their lives, and their passing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of Finduilas and Denethor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of the wooing, wedding, lives and deaths of Denethor, son of the last Steward of Gondor, and Finduilas, Princess of Dol Amroth.

In the days before The War of the Ring, and the great events of that time, Ecthelion son of Turgon was the Ruling Steward of Gondor, and Denethor was his only son. Denethor was serious of mein from his earliest days, weighted down with the desire to be a worthy son as a tree weighted down with a heavy snow. He grew to be a great warrior and a great scholar, but always his heart was cold and aloof, and he held himself apart from those who might have been his friends, seeing in them only allies or rivals. His sole desire was to please his father, and for many years he felt that he was succeeding, although his judgment of himself was forever harsher than any others' of him. 

He took to himself no wife, for he had been betrothed to the Princess Ivriniel of Dol Amroth since her childhood, but they had met only once and there had been respect but no affection between them, so they had not hurried to wed. When Ivriniel died of a fever, it was assumed that he would wed her younger sister, Finduilas, but Denethor dedicated himself to war and to learning and said he had no desire to woo a child he had never met. And he had much to dedicate himself to, as in this time Sauron declared himself openly once more in Mordor, and bands of orcs and lawless men began to harry the borders of Gondor in force. Denethor was tireless in his defense of Gondor and his battles against the orcs, and the people of Minas Tirith would indeed have loved him, if he were the type of man to be easily loved.

When Denethor was thirty-three, there came a man from the West who asked to serve as a guard in Minas Tirith. He called himself Thorongil, and he claimed he had served King Thengel of Rohan before coming to Gondor and offering his services. Thorongil was keen of eye and wise in strategy, a leader of men, and soon he was captain of the guard and beloved by nearly all in Minas Tirith, and most especially beloved by the Lord Ecthelion. But if Denethor had been before like a tree weighted with snow, now he was as a tree with its branches bent nearly to breaking; for he saw his father's love of Thorongil as a lessening of love toward himself, and he grew yet more bitter and proud. In his secret heart he suspected that this Thorongil was none other than the lost Heir of Isildur, and this knowledge was a canker in his soul that turned him against the stranger, though in truth, Thorongil was never aught but respectful to Steward Ecthelion and his son.

Osgiliath, the former capital of Gondor, had fallen into ruins over which the forces of Gondor and Mordor clashed and struggled. In the year 2066, a great force from Mordor surged to retake Osgiliath, and the remains of that once-great city rang with the uncouth voices of orcs. Denethor devised a battle plan to rout their forces, and a brave band of Gondorian soldiers put it into action, and the orcs were driven out. It was the first major victory against Mordor, and the people of Minas Tirith were greatly heartened by this, and confidence grew high that Mordor could be defeated. But there was little joy in the victory for Denethor, for Thorongil had led the charge and gained for himself much renown, which Denethor took in his heart as a slight against himself. The sight of his father embracing the very warrior who meant to supplant him filled Denethor with desperate fear, all the worse because he knew in his heart it was a selfish and small one. 

When his father summoned him shortly after and told him that he must fulfill his duties, seek out and betroth Princess Finduilas of Dol Amroth, Denethor could no longer say him nay. With a heavy heart, he garbed himself in his most glorious finery and traveled south to Dol Amroth, that castle on the sea-cliffs above which the white gulls always circle. 

As his companions and retinue stabled their horses and prepared to enter the castle and meet the royal family, Denethor found himself suddenly sick at heart and unable to bear the walls around him. He slipped away and wandered along the cliffs of Dol Amroth, his thoughts in turmoil, and the sea-birds circled around him and looked at him curiously. 

It was then he saw a figure clinging to the cliffs: a slight woman in green and brown, her dark hair bound loosely behind her, scrambling for a foothold. Without thinking, he swung down the dizzying cliffs to drag her back to safety.

Yet to his surprise, the maiden showed him no gratitude. "Villain!" she cried, stamping one booted foot, "You have startled the petrels, and caused me to lose my sketchbook as well!"

"A thousand apologies," he said, bowing low, "But you seemed to me in peril."

"All my work is lost," she stormed at him, unmollified, and he noticed her eyes were the dark gray of a tempest-torn sea.

"Forgive me," he said. "I am..." But he found the usual recitation of titles and rank held no allure for him in front of this slim brown maid, and he finished simply, "My name is Denethor."

It seemed to him she startled at his words, but then she smiled. "You may call me Faelivrin," she said.

A fluttering scrap of white, halfway down the cliff, caught his eye before he could respond. "Is that your sketchbook?" he asked, pointing. 

At her nod, he scrambled down the cliff without preamble, ignoring her breathless protest as he scrabbled down along loose pebbles and jagged rocks, appearing once more at the top of the cliff breathless and muddy and clutching a book in his hand.

"I endeavoured to not disturb your petrels," he said as he handed it to her.

" _Those_ are terns, not petrels," she retorted. But she took the sketchbook from him gently and added, "My thanks" as she opened it.

He had expected watercolor sketches of pretty birds, and was surprised to see instead highly detailed pencil drawings, cool and analytical, with careful labels placed next to them: _pinion, crest, nape._

"What is the difference between a tern and a petrel?" he heard himself ask.

"Oh! It is the simplest thing in the world!" she cried, pulling a pencil from her pocket, and soon Denethor found himself being educated at length on the differences between different sea birds, accompanied by sketches: "Terns lay eggs with a blotched pattern like this, while petrels have smooth white shells. And that bird is a skua--you can tell because the middle two tailfeathers are elongated, like this." Denethor sat and watched her blunt, capable fingers coax birds into life in lines on paper, and the sun slid down the sky until she sighed and said it was too dark to draw anymore.

He helped her to her feet, her hands warm in his for a fleeting moment. "My thanks," he said.

"For getting your cloak torn and your boots covered with mud?" she asked, laughing at him.

"No, for--" But he did not know what exactly he thanked her for, unless it were that for a brief time he had merely enjoyed the spring sunlight, and the cool wind. 

"Come back tomorrow," she said, "and I shall show you the puffins that nest on the cape." 

"I...cannot," he said. "I have business in Dol Amroth."

"Tell them you are tired from your journey and need a day to recover," she said. "And come with me."

Faelivrin's eyes sparkled like light on waves, and he found himself promising to return.

* * *

Denethor made his excuses early in the morning, then slipped from his quarters dressed in his plainest clothing--still more gorgeous than he felt comfortable with--and made his way back to the cliffs, half-fearful that Faelivrin would not be there and he would be left alone and foolish. 

But she was there, in trousers of homespun cloth, her dark hair carefully braided and twined in a crown around her head, carrying a small pack. When she saw him she ran to his side and caught his hand in hers. "This way," she said, and they walked hand in hand along the cliffs, the sharp tang of the sea and the raucous calling of the gulls all around them.

The puffins were ridiculous birds, roly-poly jesters, and Faelivrin laughed at their antics until her eyes filled with tears. She took notes on their diet and behavior, asking Denethor to help her count the chicks and drawing careful diagrams of wings and claws and distinctive beaks. As she sketched, they talked--about unimportant things, about food and music and whether one preferred to wake early or sleep late--and somehow the time passed until the sun was high in the sky and Denethor's stomach interrupted with an impressive growl.

Faelivrin laughed at his embarrassment. "I brought food," she said, opening her pack to reveal a crusty loaf of bread and a round of soft golden cheese. He spread his cloak out on the grassy sward at the top of the cliff and they sat on it and ate their fill. Faelivrin pointed out shapes in the clouds: birds and cats and flagons; Denethor saw a charging horse and a drawn sword and a falling tower. As he described the last one Faelivrin put her hand on his arm and rested it there, warm and comfortable, and he realized he was trembling. He fell silent, confused, and for a long time they sat with no sound but the sea-mews calling and the gentle surge of the sea.

Finally, she rose and dusted off her trousers briskly. He stood as well, and she bent to gather up his cloak and cast it around his shoulders once more. 

"Thank you," he murmured. "For the food, and the company."

She paused and put her hands on his shoulders. "I have enjoyed it, Denethor," she said, and his name in her voice seemed suddenly beautiful.

"Faelivrin--" he said, and knew not what else to say.

Then she stood on her toes and kissed him, and his heart felt like a snow-weighted bough on which a bird alights and sends springing up toward the sun, unburdened. 

For a time he simply let himself feel it, this strange new joy, and kissed her mouth and her hair and her eyes. And then he came to himself and said in a voice that seemed not his own, heavy and dull, "This cannot be, for my heart and my life are not my own to give, and I have deceived you. I am the son of the Steward of Gondor--" for the first time in his life, the words brought him no pride, no satisfaction, "--and I have come here to plight my troth to the Princess Finduilas." He looked at her and said, "I have duties and responsibilities, and I cannot abandon them, but I wish--" His voice broke then, "--I wish it were otherwise."

There were tears in her bright gray eyes, but she smiled at him. "I would change naught about you, Denethor of Gondor," she said. "We all have our duties and our responsibilities to fulfill, and sometimes that brings us sorrow that we can only bear with a brave heart." She kissed him again, lightly, and said, "Tell them now that you are ready to be betrothed, and go to meet your future bride with a joyous heart, and know that I will love you always."

He left her then and walked back alone to Dol Amroth, but there was no longer any joy in the calling of the gulls, and his heart felt shattered in his chest. He dressed himself in his finest robes and sent word that he had recovered and would delay meeting his betrothed no longer, and when he received word that the Princess Finduilas was ready to receive him, he went slowly to the throne room.

The hall was long, with four thrones at the far end: two large ones for the King and Queen, and two smaller ones for the Princess and her young brother the Prince and Heir. All were clad in robes of shining silk, silver and blue, but Denethor could not seem to raise his eyes to gaze upon the face of Finduilas, for all he could see before him were the sweet gray eyes of Faelivrin, lost forever, and hear her voice: _We all have our duties and our responsibilities to fulfill, and sometimes that brings us sorrow that we can only bear with a brave heart_.

He knelt before the throne and said in a clear voice that carried through the hall: "Greetings from Minas Tirith to Dol Amroth. I, Denethor, son of Ecthelion the Ruling Steward of Gondor, beg permission to take Princess Finduilas to be my wife and one day rule Gondor by my side."

"Do you agree to this, my daughter?" said the King of Dol Amroth.

"We all have our duties and responsibilities to fulfill," said Princess Finduilas, and Denethor gazed up in shock into gray eyes shining with laughter, "And sometimes that brings us joy unlooked-for and unforeseen."

And so Denethor and Finduilas were betrothed, though he always and ever called her Faelivrin, through all their days together. He returned to Minas Tirith to continue the fight against Mordor, but this new happiness brought him no ease of soul, but only made him more haughty and bitter against Thorongil, to veil the fears in his heart. Yet try as he might, he could no longer deny the right and the rightness of King Elessar to rule, and on the battlefield before the Black Gate of Mordor he pledged his fealty to the returned King and rallied the men of the West to his side, to fight against the forces of darkness.

When the battle was over and Aragorn openly hailed as King, with Arwen at his side, the son of the last Steward of Gondor returned to Dol Amroth and stood before its Princess. "My lady," he said formally, with an aching heart, "The man you pledged to marry was the future ruler of Gondor, but I will never rule that land, and its lord is to wed another. I therefore release you from your promise--"

But he never finished his sentence, for the Princess of Dol Amroth rose from her throne and ran to him, and threw her arms around him, and kissed him, saying, "You I will wed, and no other, and I would wed you were you a beggar wandering these lands forever."

And so they were wed that very month in Minas Tirith, for Finduilas insisted on returning with him to meet the new king and would wait no longer to become his bride. And all his friends were there, people who have passed into legend: Legolas and Gimli, the Rebuilders of Nurn; Dís Mithril-lock, slayer of the Witch-King; Théoden Horse-Lord of Rohan; Mithrandir the White with his companions Bachai and Pallando; and Thorin Oakenshield and Bilbo Baggins of the Shire. King Elessar joined their hands together and blessed their union, and Queen Arwen stood by the bride's side, and all were happy and joyous. 

King Aragorn would have given to Denethor and Findulas the rule of Osgiliath, of olden times the capital of Gondor, but Denethor asked instead for Pelargir, the old port of the Númenoreans at the mouth of the Anduin, recently retaken from the Corsairs. "For I find I wish to stay near the sea," Denethor said, looking at his bride, "Where we can hear the sea-birds always calling."

Pelargir flourished under their care, and they rebuilt its marble walls, though it took long years of labor. Often did Aragorn and Arwen sail down the Anduin to see them, and more often did Théoden come to spend time near the sea with them--at first with his bride, and then later in sadder times with his son and niece and nephew. And Denethor and Finduilas raised two sons there at the mouth of the Anduin where the gulls flew, and they played together among the ruins as children and grew to be great leaders of men. The elder, Boromir, was like his father, bold and proud, and his wooing and wedding of Princess Alaqai, second daughter of Queen Samur of the Easterlings, became a story of legend. But the younger, Faramir, was more quiet and given to reflection, and he wed Eowyn, beloved niece of Théoden of Rohan, whom he had known since childhood.

Denethor and Finduilas ruled long and wisely in Pelargir, and when, fifty years after the coronation of the King, the Corsairs mounted a new attack upon Pelargir, Denethor rode out once more to battle. Near ninety years of age he was then, but hale and strong, and he led his men into battle to save his home, and the day was won. But he died that day defending with his life Théodred, son of his friend and ally Théoden, from the blades of the Corsairs, and with his last words he sent his Faelivrin his love.

From that day Finduilas faded in grief, and the year was not gone before she too died. Their sons raised for them a simple monument of gray marble on the sea-cliffs, and carved on it two sea-birds in flight together. Above Finduilas they had written: "Here lies the fairest and finest of the flowers of Gondor." But above Denethor they had written as he asked, and this was: "Here lies Denethor, son of the last Steward of Gondor; friend of King Elessar and King Théoden; father of Boromir and Faramir; and husband of Finduilas." But the people of Gondor and Rohan mourned him deeply, and remembered him always as one of the greatest men of his age.


	2. Of Frodo and his Cousins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Frodo's childhood to his young adulthood, his cousins Thorin and Bilbo were always a part of his life.

For Frodo Baggins, son of Primula and Drogo Baggins, there was never a time when Cousin Bilbo and Cousin Thorin were not in his life. From when he was just a tiny baby, his mother would tell the story of how they had saved Bag End for them. “And then Lobelia swept in like a dragon,” his mother would say with an appropriate _whooshing_ gesture, “and tried to snap it up! But we were there, yes we were, and we said…” It was like a tale from an old book, and he never grew tired of hearing it.

Once he was old enough, he would walk to Thorin’s forge just to watch him work, wide-eyed at the clatter and heat of the forge, breathless at the way his cousin could coax metal to do his bidding. “You’re like a wizard,” he said once, and Thorin had laughed.

“I’m much better than a wizard,” Thorin had said. “I’m a _dwarf._ ” When Frodo was a little older the old man Bilbo called Gandalf came to visit, and when Frodo found out he was a wizard, he was inclined to agree with Thorin that a dwarf seemed vastly superior.

Sometimes Frodo would lie on the floor of Bilbo’s study and read one of his books, feeling the paper under his fingers and the staring at the pictures. Bilbo would write in his own book, but whenever Frodo asked to see it Bilbo would just laugh and close it, saying “Not until I finish it, lad.”

Frodo wondered sometimes about the contents of that book, which Bilbo kept in a locked chest. It was one of the few mysteries about Cousin Frodo and Cousin Thorin, who otherwise were such simple, easy-going folk. He wondered if it was connected to the other mystery about his cousins: the mystery of their trips up north.

For every year in the spring, Thorin and Bilbo would pack up a small case and bid the Shire farewell, and travel north for a week. “Just to visit some old friends,” they would say with a smile, but the Shire never tired of gossiping about who these “old friends” could be. Blackguards and mercenaries, some people thought. Dwarves from the Blue Mountains, others argued. Most agreed that there must be something a trifle unsavory going on--there was no other good reason to travel north, after all, when all that was necessary in life could be found in the Shire or Bree. But no one had any proof, so it remained idle chatter.

But Frodo found himself thinking about it, and dwelling on it, and when he was still very small he resolved to solve this mystery once and for all.

The year he turned ten, he stowed away in the wagon that was taking his cousins north. Hiding under a tarp, jolted back and forth as the wagon bumped along the rutted road, he felt his heart hammering as he realized that he was leaving the Shire for the first time in his life.

“I wish Estel would get this road fixed,” he heard Bilbo complain from the front of the wagon.

“He promised not to interfere in Shire business,” Thorin said. “Besides, so few people but us take this road.”

Who was this mysterious “Estel,” and why had he promised not to interfere in the Shire? Frodo wrapped his arms around himself, shivering in anticipation--maybe Estel was a bandit king, and Thorin and Bilbo were secretly his agents in the Shire! Frodo whiled away the long trip by imagining that the wicked Estel was planning to break his promise and attack the Shire. Thorin would break his vow of fealty to the brigand and defend the Shire, and Estel would try to stab him, but Frodo would throw himself before the blade, sacrificing himself for his cousins! His eyes welled up with tears as he imagined Bilbo gathering him in his arms, stricken with grief at the pure heroism of his innocent cousin. Thorin would cut his hair short in mourning, and they would bury him beneath the beech tree and give the most beautiful speeches…

He was still imagining them when he drifted off to sleep.

He woke up with a start and realized that the wagon wasn’t moving anymore. All was quiet, the wagon empty, and Frodo felt a brief stab of panic. Scrambling out from under his tarp, he peeked out of the wagon--and stared in wonder.

A huge lake, bigger than anything he had ever seen, glinted in the light of the setting sun, and at its verge were great marble columns and arches, most of them broken and desolate, overgrown with ivy and interspersed with willows. But there were also tents set up among the ruins, silken tents of cerise and azure and violet, with gold and silver banners trailing from them. Frodo could hear music and laughter coming from the largest tent; blinking and nervous, he tiptoed toward it, and under cover of a server carrying a platter, slipped inside.

And there a sight met his eyes that made him blink in wonder and amazement.

At a long table, draped with pure white linen and set with crystal and silver, sat a host of people, each more astonishing than the last. There were men, and dwarves, and--Frodo caught his breath--those must be elves as well. All of them were clad in bright raiment, adorned with gems that sparkled in the light of the lamps.

And at the center of the table were seated his cousins.

His cousins, his simple kind cousins, dressed in velvets and silks, with jeweled diadems on their brows, laughing and talking with these grand people as if they were friends, as if they were legends themselves.

Frodo felt rooted in place, unable to move, scarcely able to breathe as one of the men--a tall, dark-haired man with keen gray eyes--stood and lifted his goblet and addressed the company:

“Comrades! Once again we come from the far corners of the world to pay homage to the Ringbearers, may their memory never fade and their valor never be forgotten.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Denethor,” said Bilbo, “I’m never letting you make this toast again; you’re always so very _pompous_ about it.”

Denethor smiled fondly at Bilbo, and Frodo felt his heart thump against his ribs as he realized that everyone had lifted their glasses and was looking at Thorin and Bilbo. As if this toast--to these grand and glorious Ringbearers--was to Frodo’s cousins!

“Very well,” said Denethor. “I shall keep it simple, for your sake. To the Ringbearers, then. To the King Under the Mountain and his consort. To Thorin and Bilbo.”

Everyone lifted their glasses and drank as Frodo gaped in wonder.

Denethor went on: “We drink also to our friends who could not be here this year, as they shall drink to us in another. We drink to Bachai and Pallando, and we drink to Théoden, king of Rohan, who has stayed at Edoras to await the birth of his firstborn.”

Everyone lifted their cups and repeated the names, then drank.

“And if I may indulge in some news of my own,” Denethor said, “I am unlikely to be here next year, for I have recently learned that my own dear Finduilas is to bear our first child by the close of the year.”

“Huzzah!” cried Bilbo, lifting his glass.

Denethor beamed for a moment, then coughed and looked solemn, although there was a glint of laughter in his eyes. He turned to address the elf and man sitting close together in matching dark green robes, saying, “If that rustic horse-lord were here, I am certain he would say something that implied the two of us had proven our vigor and prowess and the world was now waiting on such proof from its high king.”

Hoots of groaning laughter; Bilbo cupped his hands around his mouth and booed.

“But as he is not here,” Denethor said quickly, “Nothing so uncouth will mar our refined and esteemed gathering.”

“Hear hear,” the dark-haired elf-maiden said gravely, her eyes sparkling. “Thank you for your restraint, my lord.”

Denethor bowed and sat back down, and the conversations and music started once more. Frodo felt nearly dizzy: never in his wildest dreams had he imagined a scene like this. The crystal and lights seemed to spin around him and he felt an awe that was close to terror grip him--he had to get away without anyone noticing him, he knew suddenly. He felt small and grubby and overwhelmed, and he couldn’t bear the thought of all these grand people staring at him, laughing at the little Shire lad with his dirty feet and rumpled curls, so far from home, so ignorant.

He turned to slip away from it all, to hide in the darkness--and ran into a server carrying a heavy tray heaped with dishes.

Silver and crystal crashed to the ground, shattering around Frodo, who covered his head with his hands, quailing. The music stopped, the conversations halted, and Frodo stood trembling with his eyes shut tight in the awful silence.

“Why, Frodo,” he heard someone say at last. “What are you doing here, lad?” It was Bilbo’s voice, warm and homely and full of puzzled affection and no anger at all, and that undid Frodo completely. He sobbed something wordless and turned toward Bilbo and Thorin, then fell senseless on the silken floor.

* * *

Someone was carrying him, he realized, someone was holding him in his arms. He blinked and focused to see Thorin’s face above him, dear and familiar even beneath the heavy jeweled diadem. 

“You gave us a start, child,” said Thorin.

“But whatever are you doing here?” Bilbo said. “How did you--”

“--I just wanted to know!” cried Frodo, struggling to sit up in Thorin’s arms. “Everyone said terrible things about where you went to the north and I wanted to know--you couldn’t be meeting with robbers and thieves, like they said--”

“Oh dear,” said Bilbo, and there was a smile in his voice.

“But now I find out you’re--” Frodo’s voice caught. “--You’re _kings._ ”

“I am merely a former king,” said Thorin gravely.

“And I never was a bit of one, how ridiculous,” said Bilbo. “I only wear these gewgaws because everyone else is and I don’t want to make you all uncomfortable, you know.”

A warm ripple of laughter chased around the table.

“Though I must admit,” Bilbo went on, “That there is a daunting amount of nobility at the table. But they’re not all that impressive once you get to know them--” There was an indignant snort that seemed to come from Denethor, but Bilbo ignored it. “--So sit up, lad, and let us make some proper introductions.”

Frodo sat up, still a bit shaky but comforted by having Thorin’s arms around him. Cousin Thorin would never let anything bad happen to him.

Bilbo put one hand behind his back and bowed to the assemblage, then cleared his throat. “Everyone, this is Frodo Baggins, son of Drogo Baggins and Primula Baggins, who was once a Brandybuck. He is my cousin--well, second cousin, but cousin is much simpler. Now, let’s see. Frodo, I suppose propriety requires that I start with Estel--that is to say, Aragorn son of Arathorn, High King of Gondor and Arnor.”

Estel--who was clearly not a bandit at all--nodded gravely, smiling at Frodo.

“And his lady is Arwen Evenstar, High Queen of Gondor and Arnor, daughter of the Lord of Rivendell.”

The dark-haired elf beside Estel smiled at Frodo, and Frodo--who had lost his heart to her the moment he saw her--blushed and tried not to hang his head.

Frodo tried to remember everyone’s names, but each person seemed more majestic and amazing than the one before, from “Dís Mithril-lock, slayer of the Witch-King of Angmar and Queen Mother of Erebor” to “Denethor, ruler of Pelargir,” to “Legolas and Gimli, Lords of Barad-dur.”

“Huasum, please,” said the red-haired dwarf with a wince.

“That’s Nurnian for ‘gift,’” said the elf who must be Legolas. “New names for fresh times.”

“Ah, very well,” said Bilbo. “It’s a much prettier name, certainly.”

“You have yet to come and visit us,” Legolas said with a small smile. “I believe you would enjoy the gardens that grow there now. Come and bring young Frodo with you sometime,” he added.

Frodo gasped at the thought. “Oh, please! Is it farther than Bree?” he burst out, and everyone laughed, but somehow Frodo no longer feared their laughter.

“It’s a bit farther,” said Bilbo. “But perhaps some day.” He smiled at Thorin, a smile that was affectionate yet melancholy at the same time, in ways Frodo sensed but could not understand. “It would be pleasant to see those lands again, free of the shadow, grown more soft and gentle.”

Thorin looked at Bilbo in that way that always made Frodo feel awkward and happy at the same time to see. “It would indeed.”

Gandalf was the only figure there that Frodo didn’t feel intimidated by, for he had met the old wizard before. He looked out of place in his gray robes and battered hat among all the splendor, but when he winked at Frodo somehow Frodo felt better.

They feasted through the night and Frodo watched the revelries with wide eyes and drank in the conversations all around him. It seemed that Lady Dís’s elder son had just been re-elected to some important position, and that her grandson was growing up healthy and strong. Something called “Ents” were still living near Erebor, but were growing restless to move on--“Although,” Dís said, laughing, “it took them two years to even decide to start debating it!” Denethor had recently traveled to someplace called Saynshar and met with its ruler to discuss trade treaties, and had visited something called “Wainriders” and returned with a cat as a gift for his wife. “Bachai insisted on it,” he said. “She said it would be a valuable companion to my first-born son--and here is a wonder, for Finduilas was not yet expecting a child at the time.” He grimaced. “I mislike prophecy and cats both, but it is unwise to turn down a gift from a wizard.”

“You are learning wisdom, Denethor!” said Gandalf from around the stem of his pipe.

Gimli and Legolas described the great hanging gardens they had built in some place which apparently had once been named “Mordor.” “Such wonders of construction,” said Gimli, waving his hands. “The people of Nurn are nearly as skilled in such things as the dwarves, and Legolas has made them bloom with flowers of all kinds, like, uh--marigoroses? Snap-peonies? Lilacilies? I can never remember the names,” he muttered, blushing.

“Suffice to say there is beauty where once there was only wasteland,” said Legolas with a smile. “We grow fruits and vegetables aplenty as well, and the children of Nurn wax strong and healthy.”

Everyone cheered, and Dís wiped tears from her eyes.

The first rays of sunlight were peeking into the tent when Bilbo rose. “And now I’m afraid we must return to the Shire.”

Sounds of disappointment from all around. “So soon?” said Arwen. “You just arrived.”

“Poor Primula and Drogo will be out of their minds with worry,” Bilbo said, patting Frodo on the head. “We must get this lad back home.”

“I’m sorry,” said Frodo, tears welling up in his eyes again. “You have to leave your friends so soon, and it’s all my fault.”

“Never you mind,” said Bilbo. “We’ll be coming back next year, after all. And perhaps next time you can come along as an invited guest, eh?”

“Oh! Yes!” Frodo squeaked, blushing to the tips of his ears. Everyone bid them farewell, and Arwen kissed his forehead, which made him blush even hotter.

He fell asleep on the ride home, resting in Cousin Thorin’s strong arms.

* * *

After that he grew even closer to his cousins, though for long years he never told a soul about what he had seen, and sometimes he could almost feel it had all been a dream. But he went back with them to the ruined city on the lake called Annúminas the following spring, and this time met Théoden, who taught him how to properly hold a sword despite Thorin’s protests, and quickly became Frodo’s favorite. It was still strange to see the High King gravely discussing plans for rebuilding the city with Thorin and Bilbo, but it wasn’t as overwhelming this time. And Frodo was looking forward to his third trip north when the world fell apart around him and all thought of joy departed for a time.

Dazed in the wake of tragedy, he was hardly aware of the world around him and entirely forgot about the planned trip. Bilbo quietly made space for himself on the sofa in Frodo’s house, Thorin came over every day to help sort through things, and only later did Frodo realize that they must have canceled their annual journey to care for him.

It was only much, much later that he found out that Thorin and Bilbo had argued over what was to be done with their orphaned cousin. Bilbo later admitted that he had felt Frodo should go to live in Brandy Hall, “where you could be with other young folk and not cooped up with two old fuddy-duddies.” But Thorin had argued that Frodo needed a more stable and quiet base, and that his friends could come visit him, and it was his voice that carried the day.

“And I do not know if it was better for you that it worked out this way,” Bilbo said to Frodo once, many years later, “But I freely admit it was better for us to have you around. Added years to my life, it did.”

* * *

Frodo was sixteen years old when he and his cousins went on the first of what they came to call their Great Rambles. By now Frodo had studied the maps in the Bag End library carefully and was aware of how wide the world was beyond Bree, but he still was not prepared for all the wonders he saw in that journey. They went to Khazad-dûm, where yet another king greeted Bilbo and Thorin as equals and showed them the great monument being built to people called Dwalin and Galadriel, on the border between dwarf-territory and the most amazing forest Frodo had ever seen. They visited a place called the Greenwood, whose ruler was notably less friendly to them, but gave them food and hospitality and hurried them on their way. And they came at last to Erebor, the Lonely Mountain, and Frodo loved it from the moment he saw it rising above the waters of the lake, crowned with clouds.

Dís was there to greet them and introduce Frodo to her sons and her grandchildren, who stared at Frodo with large, solemn eyes and then invited him to go goat-racing on the slopes of the mountain. They stayed for two weeks in Erebor, and Frodo was treated like a prince indeed and draped with gems and silver by all and sundry, much to Thorin’s disapproval.

“It will go to his head,” Thorin grumbled, plucking a diamond-encrusted circlet from Frodo’s curls and glaring at it.

“Stuff and nonsense,” Bilbo laughed. “Frodo is a sensible hobbit, after all.”

As it turned out, Frodo gave back all the gifts but one before he left--a cleverly made penknife that concealed a variety of tools within its filigreed case, given to him by Kíli. “I told you so,” smirked Bilbo as they lifted their packs once more.

They had the most astonishing traveling companions Frodo had ever imagined as they turned south--what seemed like walking, talking trees, a whole forest of them, led by someone called “Wandlimb.” Frodo spent days perched on her shoulder, watching the leagues being eaten up by her long, steady stride, marveling at the wideness and beauty of the world.

They came at last to the borders of a forest greater and darker than any Frodo had ever even imagined, and Wandlimb put him down carefully. “And now for our reunion!” she said, gazing into the forest with her deep bright eyes, and the leaves in her hair rustled as if she were trembling. She looked at Bilbo, and Frodo was shocked to see a desperate anxiety there. “What if they do not wish to see us?” she whispered. “What if they say it is too late?”

Bilbo reached out and took Wandlimb’s huge bark-skinned hand in his small pale one and patted it reassuringly. “It’s never too late if you love truly,” he said.

Wandlimb looked at the ents behind her, swaying and creaking with nervous longing. She threw back her gnarled shoulders and nodded. “Peace and health be with you, small ones,” she said. “And thank you.”

Then she and the other ents moved into the forest, and the shadows slowly swallowed them up, and Frodo could hear them singing one of their low, long songs as they went. It was full of sorrow and hope, and for a time that was all Frodo could hear.

And then there was an answering call, deeper and gruffer, a clarion of surprise and joy. There was a great rustling, and Frodo sensed huge shadows deep in the wood hurrying--hurrying!--to where Wandlimb and her people were. The two songs came together, melody and harmony, and both were resonant with apology and forgiveness that gave way to delight.

The sun disappeared behind the hills to the east; the last rays of its light pierced Fangorn Wood, and Frodo thought for just a moment he saw two figures deep within the wood, their branches entwined. Then the light was gone, and Bilbo sighed and turned away from the forest. “It’s never too late,” he said, and Thorin put an arm around his shoulder and hugged him close.

They traveled back West from there, though Frodo wept to not see Rohan and Gondor and Saynshar. “We’ll see them on another trip,” Bilbo reassured him, though he was wiping at his own eyes. “There’ll be more,” he promised. And Frodo did in time drink mead in Edoras, and play at being rangers with the sons of Denethor as the sea-birds of Pelargir called overhead, and walked the shores of the Sea of Nurn, and many other things besides. But in this year they had to return to the Shire, and so they did.

They stopped once more at Khazad-dûm, where its king gave them an invitation written in gold leaf on the finest vellum to be delivered to Belba Bolger, to see if she were willing to pass some time with her old friend Balin. (Auntie Belba was packed and in a caravan heading east within a week of receiving the invitation). And they stopped in Bree to do some shopping and rest before the final push back to Bag End.

“It’s strange,” Frodo said to Bilbo, looking around at the wooden shops and colored banners of Bree. “I would have expected that after all I’ve seen, Bree would seem smaller and shabbier in comparison. But it doesn’t. It just seems...different. A piece of something bigger.”

Bilbo clapped him on the back. “You’re wiser than I was at your age, lad,” he said. “But then, you’ve had Thorin for a teacher, and that will widen anyone’s horizons.”

“And I had you for a teacher in turn,” said Thorin with a smile, “And so it all comes full circle.”

* * *

That was only the first of their Great Rambles together. In later years Frodo would bring some of his friends along as well, and Bilbo would grumble about being a chaperone to a bunch of rowdy fauntlings at his age, and Thorin would lecture them all about history until their eyes glazed over, and they were some of the finest times of Frodo’s life. They traveled north and south and east and saw many great wonders and made many fast friends. But all that was still in the future the day Thorin and Bilbo asked Frodo to accompany them west, to see a place they called Mithlond. Frodo and Bilbo were on ponies, and Thorin was mounted on his trusty Petunia, who pranced happily to be out on the road again. Bilbo was in a cheerful mood, but Frodo couldn’t help but notice that Thorin seemed uneasy and tense, lost in unsmiling thought as they rode west. 

The Grey Havens were not as grand or glorious as other places Frodo had seen, but there was an achingly sweet beauty to the sweeping buildings that caught the light of the setting sun. Frodo stared in wonder at the great grey sea, stretching out to the horizon in unbroken waves topped with white foam, and almost didn’t notice when a tall figure emerged from the gate of the city and bowed deeply Bilbo and Thorin. “Ringbearers,” he said, straightening, “Thank you for coming to the Grey Havens.”

Thorin and Bilbo startled Frodo by bowing even more deeply in return; Thorin put a gentle hand on Frodo’s back and Frodo bowed as well, though he couldn’t resist peeking up, and saw the elf smiling down at him. “My Lord Círdan,” said Bilbo. “We thank you for the invitation.”

“Is this Frodo? Arwen had much to say about him when last we spoke,” said Círdan, which reduced Frodo to a blushing wreck for some time. He turned to Frodo’s cousins and said, “Elrond wrote me about your...situation.” Bilbo and Thorin shared a glance that Frodo couldn’t interpret. “Walk with me.”

Together they walked along a pathway made of crushed seashells, pearly-grey and white, lined with fragrant herbs and flowers, into the heart of a city both beautiful and oddly sad. It was a city of farewells, Frodo found himself thinking, and wasn’t sure what that meant. Elves bowed to them as they walked past, or murmured salutations--everyone seemed to know who Bilbo and Thorin were, although Bilbo had said they’d never been to the Grey Havens before.

They came at last to the shore, and Frodo could see a great many ships moored in the harbor, bobbing gently in the waves as the sea-birds milled around them. The ships were all beautiful, but when Frodo saw the framework high on the beach, among the sea-grasses, he caught his breath in wonder.

A small ship was being built there--so far just the bare beams of the hull, curving like the ribs of a strange and lovely animal. The beams were of a silvery wood that almost seemed to glow in the gentle sunlight, and there was a sweeping grace to its form that somehow brought tears to Frodo’s eyes.

As they drew closer, Frodo heard a sudden rustle of great wings, and to his shock a huge eagle plummeted from the sky and landed on the skeletal prow of the ship. It was large enough that it could pick up Frodo like a rabbit and carry him off, and for a moment Frodo felt his heart thump in panic. But then eagle tilted its head and regarded him, and Frodo realized its eyes were a pure, deep blue, like no bird’s he had ever seen before. At the touch of that gaze, all fear left him, turned to a calm awe. The eagle turned its look to Bilbo and Thorin and for long moment of silence regarded them impassively. Frodo felt Thorin draw a long, slow breath and realized that he was trembling--Cousin Thorin, trembling! Frodo felt utterly cast adrift and waited in silence until the eagle spread its wings wide and called out once, a sharp, almost triumphant shriek. Then it clapped its wings and soared upward into the sky until it was lost to sight among the vast blue.

Círdan turned to Bilbo and Thorin and bowed again. “It is decided. This is your ship,” he said. “And one day it will bear you to the uttermost west, where you will receive healing for your soul and joy for your heart, until the day that you pass beyond this world to the fate that awaits the Secondborn.”

“And by ‘you,’” Bilbo said sharply, his voice harsher than Frodo had ever heard it, “you mean…”

Círdan smiled. “I mean both of you together, Master Bilbo. You and Thorin Oakenshield will not be parted, in life or in death. So it has been decreed, from the highest authority in all of Arda.”

Frodo heard a hoarse sound next to him and realized, to his complete and final shock, that Thorin had bowed his head and was sobbing, his shoulders shaking. Bilbo stood on tiptoe to put his arm around his shoulder and kiss the side of his head. 

“I wouldn’t have let them separate us anyway,” Bilbo said placidly.

Thorin laughed through his tears, and Círdan nodded gravely. “I have no doubt of it at all,” he said.

* * *

They stayed at the Grey Havens for three days, though Thorin--his good humor restored--complained constantly about cold, damp elvish cities. The elves of Mithlond sang songs about the sea outside his window to tease him, and made necklaces of shells for Frodo, and taught Bilbo how to cook fish crusted in salt. And then the three of them came home, following the road back through the Tower Hills into the Shire once more. It rained much of the way, but Thorin’s eyes sought out Bilbo’s often and often as they traveled, and he sang almost all of the way home. 

Frodo caught, here and there in his songs, the Khuzdul words for “the sea,” and “the West,” and “love.”


	3. Of Denethor and Theoden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the first meeting, lives, and last days of the king of Rohan and the son of the last Steward of Gondor.

Fengel, King of Rohan, was a vain and feckless ruler who squandered his nation's money and quarreled often with his heir, Thengel. Weary of his father's pride and persecution, Thengel left Rohan and settled in Gondor, south of Minas Tirith, and married Morwen Steelsheen. There, Morwen gave birth to their only son, Théoden, and thus Théoden's earliest days were spent in Gondor. But when he was a mere five years old King Fengel died, and so Thengel returned to Edoras, bringing his family with him.

Théoden was a brave child, and strong, if somewhat reckless and thoughtless. And in those days bravery was sorely needed, for trouble came often to Rohan, as bands of Dunlending bandits plagued and harried the Rohirrim, burning their houses and stealing their horses.

When Théoden was twelve years old he was sent out, as is the custom among the Rohirrim, to serve as a page for a Captain of the Mark. The man he served under was his father's sister's husband, Utred, but he was treated as all the other pages were, roughly but fairly. They were not easy times for the young prince, but he was skilled in the saddle and quick to learn, and the days passed swiftly. His only grief was that they encountered no battle, merely petty quarrels and discontent, for he burned to prove himself in the arts of war.

Then one day his band was patrolling near the border of Gondor, and they came across a war-band of men from Minas Tirith. Now, relations between the two nations at this time were cordial but not overly warm, and so the Rohirrim approached the Gondorians with respect but not with love. And because he had spent his early years in Gondor and his Westron was the least accented, they sent Théoden to parley. 

A man dismounted from a black stallion to meet with Théoden between their two bands, dressed in light armor, black with a white tree blazoned upon it. He was clear of eye and fair of face, a man full-grown unlike Théoden, but beardless, and slender rather than strong-thewed, and Théoden secretly felt he seemed not as manly as the Rohirrim. But he dismounted as well and hailed him, saying, "Well met, man of Gondor! I ask to speak to your leader."

"You speak with him now," the man said coldly.

But Théoden burst into laughter. "Nay, you jest," he said, pointing to the black stallion. "For surely no lord of Minas Tirith would ride such a spavined nag as that!"

Then Denethor--for it was he indeed--was stung to the quick, for he was proud of the stallion he had chosen himself to be his mount. "How dare you speak so to the son of the Steward of Gondor!" he said in a rage.

"Truly?" Théoden said in amazement. "Why, I have heard the men of Gondor are no judge of horses, but I thought it an exaggeration. Yet it is as they say, if you cannot see that it is practically cow-hocked. But how could you fail to notice its trappy stride, its tragically short pasterns? Even the most horse-blind of Rohan would reject this horse." In fact he was so surprised that this man was blind to the faults in his steed that he barely realized he spoke rudely, but Denethor was a proud man and each word pierced him like a poisoned dart.

"I am not here to be lectured by a child," he cried. "We are hunting a band of orcs, and you waste our time with your prattle."

Now these words in turn struck Théoden where he was most vulnerable. "I am no child, but a warrior of Rohan and son of King Thengel himself!" he retorted, his blood hot. "Do the men of Gondor treat all their allies with such disdain?"

Then Denethor indeed regretted his hasty words in his heart, but before he could find a fair answer, a cry came from the men of Rohan, echoed by the warriors of Gondor: "Attack! Orcs ride from the north! To battle!"

In this way did Théoden of Rohan find himself in his first true battle.

It was a short but pitched skirmish, and much of it was a blur to the young prince, a strange dream of dodging and parrying. But he remembered clearly later seeing Denethor of Gondor fight for the first time. For he had thought Denethor a weak man for his slender build, yet he fought in a style Théoden had never seen: graceful and lithe and utterly controlled, like light dancing on water or snowflakes swirling in the wind. Orcs fell before him like grass before a scythe, and his blade gleamed scarlet in the morning sun. 

Yet at the end a shield struck his head, and for a moment he was stunned and unready, and the leader of the orc-band lifted its sword to strike him down. Then did Théoden leap forward and parry that blow, and the orc laughed to face such a stripling, but in that laugh Théoden's blade pierced its throat and it fell.

Denethor recovered his senses to find the young prince standing over the dead orc, his blade dripping. "My thanks," he said, but Théoden's temper was still high, his blood pounding from the battle, and he snapped:

"So in my first battle I protected that which you hold most dear in the world, steward's son. It seems a petty thing to have saved." And he turned his back on Denethor and walked away, leaving the son of Ecthelion shamed and wrathful. For he might have been able to forgive the insult if Théoden had not saved him, and he might have taken no offense at being saved if Théoden had not insulted him, but to be rescued and insulted by a mere lad rankled his pride beyond bearing. So the Rohirrim and the Gondorians parted that day, but it was a cold parting, and neither Denethor nor Théoden was inclined to think kindly of the other from that day.

And so relations between Minas Tirith and Edoras might have remained icy, save for the fact that both Denethor and Théoden received the same strange dream many years later, which summoned them to Khazad-dûm and to a fellowship led by Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain of Erebor, and from there across Middle Earth and Mordor together, to the Black Gate and the great battle there. And once the Ring was destroyed and King Elessar crowned, they found that their hearts had changed; and though they yet quarreled constantly, somehow they had grown close as brothers, and were loath to grow distant once more. So Théoden came often to Denethor's new city in Pelargir, and helped him to rebuild it, and grew close in affection to his wife, Finduilas, as well, and there passed many happy days on banks of the Anduin with his friends.

Théoden married late, and had but a few golden years with his young bride before she died giving birth to his only son and heir, Théodred. When his beloved sister also died, leaving him to raise his niece and nephew as well, Denethor and Finduilas came often to Edoras along with their young sons, to keep him company in his grief and to guard his great heart against despair. Long did Théoden rule his land with great wisdom, and his people loved him deeply.

Fifty years after the coronation of King Elessar, the Corsairs rallied to try and take back Pelargir, and Denethor's city was in dire peril. Then did Théoden put on his golden armor once more, and saddled his beloved steed Snowmane, and rode into battle with his son and his nephew at his side. And on the field of battle that day, he found himself separated from his troops and fighting at the side of Boromir and Faramir, Denethor's sons, together against the very chief of the Corsairs. He shielded the heirs of Denethor from the poisoned javelins of the Corsairs, and defeated their leader; but he was grievously wounded, and the poison darkened his vision, and he fell.

Then Boromir and Faramir would have carried him from the field, but he took their hands and smiled at them and said, "Tell your father that, as with my first battle, so my last battle was also to protect that which he holds most dear in the world, and this time it was an honor to do so." And so he died, and the warriors of Gondor and Rohan grieved around him. But Denethor never heard his last words, for he had already perished that very day saving the life of Théodred, son of Théoden, on the battlefield. 

So did these two enemies turned friends sacrifice all for each other, and the bards sing still of their deeds across the free lands of Middle Earth, from Nurn to the Shire.


	4. Of the Passing of the Ringbearers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo and Sam travel east for the last time with Thorin and Bilbo before their last journey west.

The Red Book of Westmarch contains much of interest about the history of the Shire, the customs of hobbits, and the family trees of the Tooks, Bagginses, Brandybucks and other illustrious families. The lives of many people from outside the Shire are contained within as well, insofar as they touched the lives of Bilbo Baggins and his cousin, Frodo. Frodo Baggins was certainly not the most famous hobbit in the Shire--in his later life he was perhaps best known for happening to be friends with some of the greatest leaders the Shire had ever known. He rubbed shoulders with the wise Mayor Gamgee, the brave Master Brandybuck of Buckland, and the innovative Thain Took, yet he himself never aspired to be more than what he called a “scribbler of tales.” 

There are some who would say that the stories Frodo Baggins wrote, both within the Red Book of Westmarch and outside of its pages, were instrumental in showing the folk of the Shire a wider vision of the world, and their place within the vast sweep of its history. But most agree that Frodo Baggins, writer of travelogues and fairy tales and romances, was a hobbit of very little consequence indeed.

* * *

The last of Frodo’s Great Rambles with Bilbo and Thorin was far to the east once more, shortly before Bilbo’s one hundred and eleventieth birthday. They had gone to Gondor more than once--previously with Merry and Pippin also in tow, causing trouble every step of the way--but this time it was just the three of them and Samwise Gamgee, at that time no more than the gardener’s son, who could not be persuaded to be parted with Frodo.

Thorin and Bilbo spent the days in Minas Tirith talking with Aragorn or Arwen, or meeting with any of their many friends who came from all the corners of Middle Earth to meet with them. But Frodo sat long on the parapets of the White City, watching the people come and go and smiling.

“You’re thinking up stories, aren’t you, Master Frodo,” teased Sam one warm afternoon as they sat together in the sun. “I know that look in your eye.”

“I am at that, dear Sam,” laughed Frodo. “Don’t you ever see people passing by and wonder what their stories are, and maybe imagine them for yourself? That woman in the bright green skirt, carrying her loaf of bread--did she make that loaf and is delivering it to someone? Or did she just buy it and is now bringing it home--to whom? A hungry child? An ailing mother? Why does she look so haughty and sad at once?”

“But you can’t ever know for sure,” Sam said as the woman disappeared around a corner, out of sight. 

“All the more reason to spin a tale, Sam,” said Frodo, “for it’s all we’ll have, sometimes.”

“You know I love your stories,” Sam said, “but I’m not sure I quite understand your--”

But Frodo wasn’t listening to him; he was leaning over the parapet and waving wildly to someone in the street. “Boromir!” he called out. “Boromir!”

A tall, dark-haired man stopped dead in the street, gazing upward until he found Frodo. He smiled and waved, then came striding up the steep street until he swept Frodo up into a hug.

“Frodo Baggins!” Boromir said in delight. “I did not know you were here in Minas Tirith!”

“But we sent word to Pelargir months ago--” Frodo broke off as he looked more closely at Boromir. “Oh Boromir, your face!” And he had cause to exclaim, for Boromir’s handsome face was marred by three long, parallel scars, barely-healed, that ran from his eyebrow down to his chin.

“Ah,” said Boromir, touching the scars lightly, “The story of these scars and the story of why I knew not of your coming to Gondor are one and the same, dear friend. For I have been traveling in the East for many months, and having many adventures, and I tell you these scars are happy scars indeed, for I gained them in winning the love of the fairest maid in all of Middle Earth.”

At this assertion Sam might have made a rather rude noise, because he already had strong opinions about the fairness of a certain Rosie Cotton, and Boromir raised an eyebrow at him.

“Ah,” said Frodo quickly, “Boromir, this is my friend, Samwise Gamgee, of the Shire. Sam, this is Boromir, son of the Lord of Pelargir.” He took Boromir’s arm with an easy familiarity. “Boromir, how about you tell us the rest of your tale over a tankard or two?”

The tale was long enough that it took much more than two tankards to tell it, and by the end of the evening Frodo had all the material that would eventually become his most well-known and well-loved work in the Shire: “The Faithful Cat of Saynshar; or the Wooing of Princess Alaqai.” So famous did it become that it became quite the vogue among young hobbit-maids and their swains to compose love letters on special cat-shaped stationery as a symbol of fidelity and loyalty, and lovers spoke of having “cat-bonds” that made it possible to dream true dreams of one’s beloved. Older hobbits shook their heads and made tutting noises at the mad fancies of youngsters nowadays, but the young didn’t seem to care a whit about that and continued reading Frodo Baggins’s romances with avid delight.

But that was all far in the future when Frodo and Sam spent the night drinking with Boromir, and far in the future when Thorin roused them, aching and squinting, from their beds at the crack of dawn the next day to announce that it was time to leave Minas Tirith and head further east.

* * *

They traveled east to what used to be the Black Gate of Mordor, now overrun with ivy and flowering vines. Two figures awaited them there: Legolas and Gimli, beaming with delight at the chance to show Bilbo and Thorin their land. “At last,” said Gimli. “I was beginning to think you would never visit us!”

Bilbo smiled, but it seemed to Frodo there was a shadow beneath it. “I never thought I would step through this gate again,” he said.

“Let us show you the beauties we have created with the people of Nurn,” said Legolas. “Be welcome in what was once called Mordor, but is now called Huasum.”

They rode slowly through the lands that Legolas and Gimli tended, and though to Frodo it seemed like any other pleasant, flowering land, Bilbo and Thorin kept halting to exclaim in wonder at its beauty.

Frodo and Sam passed a happy week or so in the new capital of Nurn, marveling at its buildings, which seemed from some angles to look like elvish buildings, and from others to be dwarvish, and from yet others to be purely of Men. They made new friends, heard the haunting music of the East, collected new stories and new foods--and once, greatly daring, they explored the very heart of the ruins of Barad-Dur. But a shadow seemed to come over them in that still, dark place, untouched by loving hands since its fall, and they did not tarry, but hurried back to warmth and light. 

It seemed to Frodo that since passing into Huasum, Bilbo had grown older and more tired, though his smile was as gentle as ever and his humor as wicked. But one night Frodo entered his cousin’s room to see them sitting on the veranda together, gazing out at the green-covered slopes of the mountain that had once been called Doom. Bilbo’s head was on Thorin’s shoulder, and their hands were intertwined.

“We should never have come,” Thorin said in a low voice, and Frodo stopped, his heart in his throat.

“Nonsense,” said Bilbo. “It’s been a joy to see these lands green and happy; a joy I would never have wanted to forgo. But--” He stopped and sighed, looking out at the old volcano, its fires extinguished. “But I do believe it’s almost time, my dear. Frodo is all grown, and I… I’m tired.”

Frodo saw Thorin lift Bilbo’s hand to his lips and slipped away again with an aching heart.

* * *

They had planned to go further, on to Saynshar, but instead Thorin simply announced that they would be going back to the Shire, and so they did. Frodo would remember it later as a truly golden time: the days full of warm spring sunlight, the nights full of firelight and stories and friendship. He savored every day to the fullest, and by the time they reached home and Bilbo began quietly setting his affairs in order, the pain in his heart was a manageable thing.

Shortly after his eleventy-eleventh birthday of the same year, Bilbo told Frodo and his friends he was going on a last Ramble, and he would be honored if they would join him. So Frodo and Sam and Merry and Pippin all rode westward together. And on the Far Downs at dusk, in the shadow of the elf-towers, a caravan met them. It traveled slowly, and it gleamed in the twilight as if it were coated with stardust. Frodo saw Gandalf there, and Glorfindel, and Elrond, all grave but smiling to see Thorin and Bilbo. Arwen was there too, as beautiful as the day Frodo had first seen her, and she kissed Bilbo’s forehead and sat him on one side of her and Thorin on the other, and they talked together in low voices as they all traveled to the Grey Havens.

Pippin and Merry and Sam all marveled at this procession, but Frodo remembered the weariness in his cousin’s voice and said nothing as they rode slowly through the night.

They reached Mithlond, and walked together to the docks, where a silvery ship bobbed gently in the pearly pre-dawn light. Bilbo looked at all of them, and smiled as he reached Frodo’s face last. “You know I am bidding you farewell,” he said.

Frodo nodded, speechless, as his friends exclaimed in dismay.

“Bag End is yours, dear Frodo, to do with as you will,” Bilbo said. “My book is yours, to finish as you see fit. May you know happiness and heart-wholeness all your days,” he said softly, and brushed tears from the corners of Frodo’s eyes. “But Thorin and I will sail west to where all old shadows are banished, and after that--” He lifted one shoulder in a shrug, and his smile was full of a mischievous delight that made him look much younger, “--who knows? But we will explore it together, he and I.”

“I shall miss you,” Frodo said, and his voice stopped, and he could say no more.

“Farewell, Frodo!” said Thorin gravely. “Go back to your fireplace and your books; write your stories and pass them on, and know that you are in our hearts wherever we go.”

And they bid farewell to all the hobbits, and to Arwen, who stood with her eyes full of tears that did not fall as she watched her father sail away in the dawn, until their ship was nothing but a dot of light on the far gray horizon, like a star that seems to touch the sea.

They rode back in silence, and Sam and Pippin and Merry wrapped their cloaks around themselves and wept. After a time Sam wiped his eyes and said in a low, hoarse voice: “Master Frodo, tell us a story.”

Frodo Baggins smiled slightly, for he knew what Sam asked of him. He took a breath and he spoke into the dawn and the tentative birdsong, saying:

“Thorin and Bilbo traveled West on their silver boat, and it passed beyond the curve of the world, and it came to the Blessed Lands, beyond all shadow and all pain. Celebrían and Galadriel were there to meet their ship when it arrived, and to receive news of their daughter and granddaughter, and be told how much she loved and missed them.”

Frodo looked over at Arwen, riding straight and proud, and saw tears streaking her face. She looked at him and smiled through her tears, and he went on:

“There in the Undying Lands they were made whole of heart once more, and for a time they traveled Aman, seeing all of its wonders. Many old friends they saw, for they traveled to the Halls of Mandos themselves, and met there once more Dwalin and Frerin, and Dís as well when she arrived, and many others beside, and the echoes of that great feast reached even to Valimar, where the elves stopped and listened in wonder. Bilbo and Thorin were happy all their days remaining, and filled their days with joy and laughter, and no regrets remained in their hearts. And when the time was right, they lay down side by side and their souls went on to the greatest of mysteries, and they were welcomed together to the Great Music beyond the stars.”

He fell silent, and for a time there was no sound but the rhythm of their horses’ hooves and the gentle birdsong.

“It’s a lovely story,” said Sam at last, his voice raw with yearning, “But is it _true_ , Master Frodo?”

“Oh Sam,” said Frodo, turning to him and smiling, though his eyes were full of tears. “It’s as true as any story that we tell to bring some light into the dark, and some hope into the world. 

“Which is to say, of course it’s true. Every word of it.”


End file.
